Harry Dresden and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good,
by Rosethorn
Summary: ..Very Bad Day. Mouse either does or does not help. Christmas fic for Shadowsong1, please enjoy.


Today, not to put too fine a point on it, sucked.

Yeah, yeah, I know. The universe hates me. It's my job to be its chew toy. But today was really over the top.

For starters, my new puppy that I hadn't agreed to adopt in the first place woke me by jumping up and down on my liver. He's a big puppy, going to be a huge dog—right now he weighs about twenty pounds, and he's getting bigger daily. Anyway, he needed to go out and do his doggy business, and I got to shuffle out into a Chicago winter at ass o'clock in the morning and pick it up.

Mister, my thirty-pound tomcat, ran me over on the way back in. My stupid brother had come in late last night, drank the last of my Coke, eaten the last of my food except for some ancient Chinese takeout that I'm sure is developing sentience, and squeezed the toothpaste in the middle of the tube before disappearing again so I couldn't even yell at him.

Then there was the message at my answering service. "Someone named McCoy called, said it was important." All before eight AM.

I spent the rest of a very exhausting day chasing demons around bum-fuck Egypt, Illinois, with Ebenezar hollering instructions at me from his truck. I didn't get back until ten at night, and when I did, I was exhausted, aching, and covered in mud.

And the fucking icebox was still empty.

I collapsed in my chair and groaned. With my luck today, Mouse had gone somewhere in the apartment, and Mister hadn't been fed all day, and I had to take them both to the vet tomorrow and apologize for missing their appointment today. What was I supposed to say, anyway? "Gee, sorry, had to cancel on account of demons?"

At least my apartment was reasonably neat, which suggested that Thomas had not had sex recently, which meant I didn't have to yell at him about _that_ at least.

Hey, we're brothers. We missed out on thirty-odd years of fighting with each other, and it's never too late to start. Besides, I was feeling particularly Grinchlike tonight, and a good fight might make me feel better.

I'd been sulking over my wrongs for about five minutes when I felt the press of a paw on my leg, and a pair of ears rose like a fin from the deep into my line of vision. The Jaws theme started playing in my head. 

It didn't stop even when Mouse's big liquid eyes came into view. His expression, if dogs can be said to have expressions, suggested that he had never been petted in his enter life, not _once._

It was a lie, but I sighed, and patted my legs anyway. "Okay, whatever, get up here."

Mouse landed on my lap with a audible thump. He was really getting too big to be a lapdog, and I told him so while scratching his ruff. "You're more trouble than you're worth," I told him.

He gave me a sad look and rested his chin on the armrest.

"Yeah, yeah. You think _you_ have it bad. I've had the world's worst day, I'm tired, and I can't even have a hot shower 'cause I'd blow the house up."

Mouse made a soft whuffling noise that seemed to indicate that blowing up the house would indeed be a bad thing.

"Ebenezar thinks I'm disposable," I told Mouse, grumpily. I didn't really think he thought that—after all, he was somewhere in his third century of life and he'd earned the right to make whippersnappers like me run around for him—but Mouse wouldn't tell, and it felt good to be totally unjust for once. "And Thomas thinks I'm a walking dispenser of floor space and food. So do you, dog."

Mouse indicated that he was prepared to accept just about anything on faith so long as I did not stop scratching his ears.

Dogs. I sighed. I had things to do; I should really get up. Mister would be getting hungry, and Mouse, and I would need to go shopping before any of us could eat. I should probably find Mouse's inevitable present and clean it up before it stank up the whole place. In fact, I should probably take a shower before _I_ stank up the whole place. 

Mouse whined briefly (I'd stopped scratching), rolled over, and gave me a pleading look.

Aw, hell, I could spare an hour or so. Put Thomas to work for once. I scratched Mouse's belly and relaxed.

Oh, yeah.

_That's_ why I'd kept the dog.


End file.
